“What are you doing here?”
“I was sleeping.” With a soft moan, she pressed her body into his side—an erect nipple rubbing against his ribs. His body reacted immediately, and it wasn’t only his nipples that were erect.
“No, I mean why are you here…in my cabin…in Ohio?” He shifted away from the temptation of repeating last night’s mistake before he sank his body into hers once more and sat on the side of the bed. “Didn’t you get my letter?”
The pelting of rain against the roof of the cabin filled the silence that hung like a cloud in the room. Then she laid her soft hand on his back.
“Yes, I received your letter.”
He couldn’t stand the question in her voice or the feel of her hand branding him as if he still belonged to her. Grasping his pants and shirt from the floor, he jerked his body from the bed and stumbled to the door. “I meant every word that I wrote. We can never be together.”
“But last night…”
“Last night was a mistake.” He struggled into his pants. His back still to her, he shoved his arms through his shirt sleeves. “You shouldn’t have come. I don’t want you here. Not now. Not ever.”
As he bolted from the room he couldn’t help but hear the gasp of pain from the bed and the knowledge that tears would follow chased him out the door.
His worst nightmare coming true.
He maneuvered past the corner of the table and found his boots by the door. As he shoved his feet in them his stomach suddenly knotted and threatened to empty its contents. He shot outside, fleeing the porch and rounding the side of the house moments before the inevitable hit.
Wiping the bitter taste of bile from his lips with his hand, he wove his way unsteadily through the rain and muddy ruts to the barn, collapsing in an empty stall. The smell of manure and stale hay almost drove him back to the cabin. But he couldn’t go back inside, not with Bella there to remind him of all he’d lost.
At least she hadn’t witnessed his shameful exhibition just now. A whinny sounded in the next stall.
“Easy, Chance. I’ll feed you in a bit.” Once he caught his breath and came to terms with her presence in his home.
Home.
What a laugh. The farm hadn’t been a home since his mother died. One of the reasons he’d headed east to practice his art as soon as he could. His father’s bitter diatribes and meaty fists had driven him out. After the old man’s death he’d always meant to sell the place. Then came the war.
The war.
Cannon fire.
Gunfire.
Men yelling their rage, others screaming their pain. The acrid smell of gunpowder, burning flesh and spilled blood.
Finally, the siege at Petersburg.
His last battle. The one that sent him back here to hide from the world, to lick his wounds, try to forget. Forget the life he’d forged in the academic art world, the love he’d found with Bella.
Thunder rumbled overhead. Rain leaked through a hole in the barn roof to splatter beside him. The barn, precarious when his father lived here, was falling apart right over him, just like his life. Full of rot and neglect. How could he ever ask Bella to share this life when the one they’d planned had held such beauty and promise?
Beauty.
Eyes clenched tight, he thought about the first time he’d danced with Arrabella. She’d been like a shining goddess descending the stairs on her father’s arm. Her golden-blonde curls encircling her face and cascading down her neck and shoulder like a wreath of sunshine just to brighten the room.
Her dress, scandalous for an unmarried woman, draped over one shoulder, leaving the other naked and asking for a man’s touch. The shiny material clung to every curve of her body, molding to her breasts and hips, proclaiming her to be a woman who would give pleasure to the lucky man who claimed her as his.
He’d been that man. That lucky man who caught her robin’s-egg-blue gaze and felt her radiant smile right to his soul.
During the day they spent their hours as society insisted a pair might, all propriety and grace. At night they attended balls and dinners, plays, again decorum dictating their actions. But in private she became his muse, his willing model.
Leaning back against the pile of wet hay, he fumbled with the opening of his britches and eased his thickening cock out. His mind already drawing on the memory of Bella posing for him the first time, he stroked the length in a slow rhythm.
He’d been surprised, then thrilled the first time she offered to sit for him. They’d chosen her father’s conservatory for a portrait. He turned his back to gather his supplies and when he turned around again, she’d stripped off all her clothing.
Stunned, he could only stare and take in the vision before him. A light blush heightened her alabaster skin to a pink hue mirroring the roses scattered about her. Each nipple was a rosy perfection begging to be kissed, like the pink-tipped teardrop plant hanging just above her shoulder.
Reality and exactly where they were hit him hard. “Bella, your father…” he asked looking back at the closed conservatory door behind him.
“Is at the university all day.”
“The servants?”
“Surprisingly, it’s everyone but Cook’s day off.” She smiled, and he knew she’d arranged this—for him.
Michael stroked his cock, letting the rhythm build as he remembered the desire her machinations had ignited in him, anticipating what she’d done next.
When she lifted one leg to rest upon the seat beside her, her pussy opened like a rare orchid waiting to be caressed and treasured. Then she’d slowly slipped one hand down to the nest of soft blonde curls, parting them more so that he could see the nub of her desire peeking out at him as if a rare pearl.
She worked one finger around and around that spot, teasing it from its sheath. She arched her back and began to rock her hips in a sensual dance. He’d watched, mesmerized, as she slipped that finger lower, coating it with her own slick juices then brought it up to her mouth. Parting her lips, she pulled the glistening finger deep inside, her blue gaze locked on his as she suckled on it.
It had taken all his willpower not to take what she’d offered that first day.
Her sensuality had surprised him, pleased him. He strove to capture it on canvas. Without showing her face, he’d made her body an icon of sexual beauty for the world to see.
Michael groaned and pumped his manhood the way he’d wanted to that day. He’d wanted to shuck his clothes and pounce upon her, make her kneel before him and suck his cock in the same slow, sensual manner. His memories shifted to the day he’d first had her before him in such a fashion.
She’d been teasing him for weeks as he furiously painted her image from the neck down as a wanton sex goddess. She’d even gotten brave enough to bring herself to climax while he painted.
Now it was finished and he meant to make her pay for keeping him so aroused while he labored. Stalking toward her, he slowly pulled her from where she lay sprawled on the garden settee in the hidden corner of the conservatory.
With one hand in the riot of blonde curls piled artfully high on her head and the other hand grasping the firm cheek of her round and enticing derriere, he pulled her naked body up hard against his chest, claiming her mouth with a fierceness that surprised them both, but she clung to his shoulders and parted her lips beneath his to show she wasn’t afraid of his need.
Managing to gain control over his body, he deepened the kiss and at the same time turned them until the backs of his knees pressed against the settee. He continued to plunder her mouth, thrusting his tongue in and out as if it were his cock, letting her suck on it as he delved her depths and tasted her desires.
But this wasn’t just about slaking their lust of each other. It was so much more. She needed to know who was in control, to learn her blatant sexual teasing would have consequences.
Slowly he eased her away from him.
“Michael?” she asked, her eyes full of passion and confusion, the blue depths almost calli
ng him back to her like a sea siren.
His gaze locked on hers, he sat on the settee. “Kneel for me, Bella.” He took one of her hands and indicated the spot between his spread thighs.
Without hesitation she sank to her knees before him, and her act of complete trust thrilled his heart.
“Open my pants,” he instructed, laying her hand against the thick bulge pressing against the buttons of his trousers.
She licked her lips, a soft smile curving them as the realization of what he intended filled her eyes. A light blush turned her cheeks a tea-rose pink, yet she obeyed his command by slipping each button from its mooring.
“You’ve driven me crazy these past months,” he said, reaching down to stroke her cheek. “Your lips have haunted me in my dreams. Every time you slipped your finger inside and sucked off your juices, I imagined it was my cock you were treating with such pleasure.”
As she reached in and grasped his straining shaft, her eyes grew wide. “This is much bigger than the ones on the statues at the museum.”
He laughed. “Do you approve?”
“Most assuredly,” she said with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. Then she stroked her hand from the tip to the base and slipped her tongue out to tease him.
The memory of her tentative first taste made Michael groan, his hand teasing the head a little just as she had with her tongue. He let the memory of her lips stretching over the crown and the feel of her mouth as she took more of the shaft wash over him. His balls tightened as he watched in his mind her blonde head bobbing up and down, her lips stretched to take him in deeper with each pass.
Just as he had that first time she’d sucked him in completely, he imagined how he held her head in place and poured his seed into her throat.
“Oh, God, Bella!” His cry filled the barn as he erupted, his seed shooting out and down his hand.
Arrabella hugged Michael’s pillow close, letting her tears flow as freely as the rain outside.
Why?
Why didn’t he want her here? Last night might’ve been a dream for him, but weren’t dreams the expression of what the heart truly desired? Well, Michael might be ignoring what his heart desired, but she knew what hers wanted. Him.
Sitting on the side of the bed, she dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. She’d come here to fight for what she wanted, and fight she would. With determination, she grabbed her dress from the chair where she’d laid it before going to sleep and pulled it on, fighting with the buttons while making her plans to assault the stubborn wall Michael was erecting between them.
Many a would-be suitor had tried flattery to gain her attention and a foot in the door of her father’s elite position of the academic art world, thinking her a stepping stone to their careers. However, they’d quickly learned her tongue was as sharp as a saber. Her father had nurtured her mind and New England practicality, trusting her to ward off more than one false swain.
Then came Michael.
He was a breath of fresh air. He’d truly wanted to paint and study the techniques taught by her father. He wasn’t just looking for a professorial position. And when he looked at her, he didn’t just see a meal ticket. He actually listened to her thoughts and dreams. He’d fallen in love with the woman on the inside, as well as the out.
A soft laugh escaped her. He’d loved her so much it had taken her six months of posing for him to get him to make love to her. Well, it hadn’t taken as long this time. And if she had anything to say about it, he’d continue using her body to help him heal until he accepted they belonged together.
First thing was to clean up the cabin. How could he live in this squalor? He, who enjoyed the beauty in everything?
Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since luncheon the day before. Did Michael have anything to make breakfast with in the house or did he simply drink all his meals?
Dressing quickly, she plated her hair into a simple braid and tied it off with a ribbon then went to search the larder.
Nothing. Except for some flour and coffee, the cupboards were completely bare. She searched the box of supplies she’d dragged into the house. A ham and a beef roast. God bless Mr. Higgens, it wasn’t just whiskey.
“Please let there be eggs and milk in the barn,” she muttered as she pulled on her coat.
Bracing against the cold December rain, she hurried out the door and across the muddy ground to the dilapidated barn. Surely there were some chickens and a cow inside.
Thunder rumbled overhead as she opened the barn door, drowning out the creak of the old wood beneath her hands. She stood just inside the door, her eyes adjusting to the shadows and small areas of gray light seeping in with the rain through the holes in the roof.
About to call out for Michael, she heard a strange sound coming from farther inside.
Was Michael injured?
Then another thought occurred to her. Was it even him? What if it were one of those renegade soldiers she’d read about in the papers who were wandering the country stealing and murdering? Wouldn’t Michael’s run-down farm be the perfect hiding place?
The sound came again.
A moan?
Yes, definitely a moan, but it didn’t sound like someone in pain.
Careful not to make any noise she crept over to a stall with several cows inside chewing hay or gently bawling to be milked. She moved past an area that seemed to house chickens on the other side of the aisle. As she inched forward, she could make out the shape of a horse in the farthest stall. Between her and it was an open space where the moaning and odd sound emitted.
Another step.
A second.
Staying in the shadows, she covered her mouth to keep from gasping at the purely decadent display.
Sprawled on a pile of loose hay in the empty area, Michael lay with head thrown back, shirt open to reveal his well-muscled chest and abdomen, the dark hairs on his stomach led downward to where his pants were splayed open and his hand grasped his straining manhood.
As many times as they’d made love and the various things they’d done, never once had she witnessed him taking his own pleasure. She watched as his hand stroked from the base nestled in the nest of springy dark hair up to the thick purple head of his erection.
The rhythm of his hand as it pumped the thick shaft held her spellbound. He thrust his hips in the same forceful way he used when he was buried deep inside her.
He flopped his other arm over his head as another deeper moan escaped him, sending heat straight to the junction of her thighs.
The sensuality of his body was both beautiful and carnal. It made her want to strip naked, crawl between his legs and replace his hand with her mouth. Yet, after his reaction to waking with her in his bed she doubted he’d appreciate the invasion of so private a moment.
Feeling just a little bit wicked for watching him, she remained in the shadows.
His hand moved faster, his hips thrusting upward rapidly until a cry escaped him.
“Oh, God, Bella!”
Her name on his lips, he clenched his teeth, his body wracked in one long spasm of release and his creamy white seed poured over his hand.
Arrabella clamped her thighs tight and fought the urge to moan in tandem with her lover as he slowly relaxed.
The horse in the stall whinnied.
Michael raised his head with a start, looking in the direction where she stood. Lightning flashed outside and a stray shaft of light illuminated his features.
Arrabella fought back another gasp—one of shock and despair.
Michael didn’t know she was there even though she wasn’t truly hidden by the shadows.
Her beautiful lover, the man who had shown her such beauty in the world, the artist God had blessed with such talent…was blind.
Chapter Three
Arrabella edged back toward the barn door, trying to not make any noise despite the tears running down her cheeks that nearly blurred her vision. She stopped when she heard Michael stumble out into the ma
in aisle between the stalls. The urge to help him almost made her hurry to his side, but he managed to get to the post near the horse’s stall without tripping on anything.
“Hey, Chance, you hungry, fella?” he said as he reached over to stroke the large black stallion’s head and neck, then gave a bitter laugh. “Should probably let you go. A blind man can’t take care of you, let alone ride.”
The pain of seeing him so sad and in such a state of helplessness tore at Arrabella’s heart.
“Useless, that’s what I am. Useless to you,” he said, even as he felt around for the pitchfork leaning up against the barn wall. “Useless to the art world. Useless to Bella. Hell, boy, I’m pretty much useless to myself.”
Is that how he saw himself now? With such pity? Was that why no one came out here to see him, because they pitied the poor blind soldier returned home? And of course, he was busy drowning his sorrows in whiskey.
“It would’ve been better if the shrapnel had just killed me, not left me a useless invalid.”
Anger surged through her with his words of self-pity. Anger at the war. Anger at the townspeople. Anger at Michael.
Just as quickly it was replaced with her New England practicality. You couldn’t wish for things to be different. No, sir. If you wanted things to change you had to start with the situation life dealt you.
Well, the last thing he needed now was more pity from her. She wanted the man she fell in love with, the cocky, smart, capable man who made her laugh and who still had the soul of an artist. By God, she planned on finding him in the shell of a man currently stumbling around in the dark. Even if she had to drag him kicking and screaming out of the pool of despair he was wallowing in.
Straightening her spine, she opened and closed the barn door as if she’d just entered.
“Who’s there?” Michael asked, whirling toward the sound, holding the pitchfork like a weapon.
“Just me. I’m hungry and thought I’d make some eggs.” She didn’t look at him, just headed straight toward the cubbyholes where the chickens roosted. Ignoring him, she reached under the hens, happy to find nearly a dozen eggs, which she gathered in the front of her skirt.
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